


Lonely Without You

by MaggieMaybe160



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Castiel Can Hear Longing (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Cults, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Episode: s07e03 The Girl Next Door, Fever, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Injury Recovery, Loss, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Medication, Public Masturbation, Recovery, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Vomiting, canonverse, profound bond gift exchange: quarantine & chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24309670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieMaybe160/pseuds/MaggieMaybe160
Summary: Dean is stuck in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with a busted leg until he can get this cast off and get back to hunting down leviathan. Cas has lost his memory and has never felt more alone than he does right now, wandering without a name, without a family. But their bond makes them less lonely.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 24
Kudos: 64
Collections: ProfoundBond Exchange: Quarantine & Chill, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honeywolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeywolf/gifts).



> I had a lot of fun making this! I hope you enjoy!! Thank you for requesting angst so I could go wild! <3 
> 
> Thank you to my cheerleader and beta, [insominia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/insominia)! Couldn't have done this without you! Love you so much.

**Day 1**

Dean wakes up on a couch. Everything is a little fuzzy, but he’s pretty sure he just escaped from an evil hospital on a busted leg. He barely remembers waking up in time for his leg being set. It’s a little more clear when he woke up and fell on his ass because of the morphine. He remembers making it to Bobby and Sam in time, but then the adrenaline had run out. Suddenly, his head was swimming and he’d closed his eyes to stop the morphine-induced nausea. 

“Where are we?” he mutters as he rubs his eyes. 

“Middle of Nowhere, Montana,” Bobby answers. Dean looks around the room. The tv is off. The coffee table is unused and still manages to look dirty. Bobby is sitting at the dining table behind him, a burger wrapped in fast-food paper. Sam is missing. 

“Where’s Sam?” Dean asks, sitting up. He winces at the pain in his leg, but it’s safely enclosed in his cast. Bobby nods over to somewhere behind the couch and Dean turns a little too fast. He’s still dizzy, but he blinks it away and sees Sam set up on a single bed, some blankets thrown over him. “And C —” His name lodges itself in Dean’s throat. Cas is gone. 

“Can you stand, Gimpy Moe?” Bobby asks, either ignoring Dean’s slip-up or he didn’t hear it. “The bathroom is over there and I’m not cleanin’ out a piss bottle.” He passes Dean a wooden crutch that looks like one Tiny Tim would use. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters as he pushes himself up to standing. His leg shoots up with pain and he grits his teeth. “Where are the crutches from the hospital?” 

“You dropped ‘em when you got in the ambulance.” Dean takes a step and winces. He can’t help it. It hurts so bad. Where’s the morphine now? “Anything to help this?” Dean asks, glancing down at his leg. 

“I’ll check the ambulance, but if there’s nothin’ there then earliest I can get anything for you is tomorrow.” Bobby gets up, throwing his wrapper away as he makes his way outside to the ambulance. Dean looks up at the bathroom door and bites his lip before taking a shaky step. It doesn’t go well. 

“Fuck!” Dean cries out as he falls. He props himself up on one elbow and looks down at his cast. 

“Why is it that whenever I walk into a room, you’re on the floor?” Bobby asks. He’s holding an IV bag, the packaged needles, and all the little things like the alcohol swabs and cotton balls. 

“It hurts, okay?” 

“Okay.” Bobby puts the supplies on the table and leans down to help Dean up again. “Try again.” 

Dean huffs and leaves the crutch, steadying himself on the edges of furniture as he goes, gritting his teeth against the pain. He slams his hand into the bathroom door. “There. Can I have my damn meds now?” Bobby raises his eyebrows in a way that says  _ watch your tone, boy _ . “Please,” he adds. He gets back to the couch and carefully lifts his leg back onto the couch while Bobby sets up the IV. 

“There’s food in the fridge and you have all of my numbers, but I can’t stay here with you boys,” Bobby says as he wipes the back of Dean’s hand with alcohol. 

“Has Sam even woken up? What am I supposed to do with the kid?” He doesn’t remember if Bobby even knows what’s going on with Sam. “He’s seein’ things, Bobby. I can’t help him.”

“We’ll keep an eye on it. He won’t be up for a few hours by the looks of it.” Bobby places the needle. It’s not as painful as it always seems like it’s going to be. “I’m glad you boys are safe,” he says after hanging the bag on the back of a chair. He pats Dean’s cheek again, reminding him that he loves him without having to say it. It’s always been like that. Back when Dean was just a little kid waiting for his dad to come back to pick him up, Bobby would clean the scraped knees, make the pies, and tuck him into bed at night with a pat on the cheek. 

The world tips. IV drip meds work too quickly to continue any kind of conversation about brothers who have head injuries while delusional. “Bobby,” Dean slurs. How he manages to make a two-syllable word sound slurred, he will never know. He doesn’t hear the answer, fading fast under the drugs.

**Day 1**

The man swims up from the depths of wherever he has been for the past few days. He doesn’t know why he swims up or even how he knows how to swim. He just does it because something in him is telling him to. Telling isn’t the right word. Begging is closer to the sentiment, though he isn’t even sure how he knows the difference between those two words. He knows absolutely nothing. All he knows is that he has to swim up. 

His face breaks the surface but he can’t take a breath. He pulls himself half out of the water onto the grass before he vomits water up. It feels unnatural to purge in this manner, but it isn’t like he can stop. He gasps in his first breath and coughs, more water being expelled from his body. His body is weak and his arms refuse to support him even as he clutches at the grass and tries to crawl the rest of the way out of the water. He lies in the grass, his legs still limp in the water behind him, his cheek resting in his puked up water. He breathes in the air, his eyes closing.   
He feels the sun on his cold skin. It warms him and dries the water that he wasn’t sure would ever leave him. It takes over three thousand seconds for the man to gain enough energy to pull his legs from the water and roll over so his face is no longer in the regurgitation. He coughs again before lying still and letting the sun warm the other side of his body. His hair is no longer sticking to his face. 

With his eyes open, the man can see many things and many colors. There’s the body of water from whence he came, reflecting the blue from the expanse of sky above. Around him are deep green trees, lighter, soft grass, and specks of white and gold flowers dotting the ground. When he closes his eyes, there is nothing. He is alone. He is quarantined, isolated, secluded, lonely. He sees black and oddly enough, he sees green. An impossible green that makes him feel more alone with every passing second. 

The man waits until he can breathe evenly without coughing up any more water before he stands up. He looks into the trees. It’s the only option unless he’s some kind of aquatic creature which isn’t completely out of the question after emerging from the wetness. He decides he would rather breathe the air than the water and walks into the woods. 

**Night 1**

_ Sparks rain down into the dark from nothingness. There is no barn and the wind isn’t howling, but still, he cries out for Cas. His own voice is drowned out by the oppressive darkness and he can’t move, weighted down with dread and longing. “Cas!” he tries again. _

_ His voice answers a million times over. A symphony of “Hello, Dean,”s, “Dean!”, and “We share a more profound bond.” crash over each other in waves. Dean’s heartbeat is the only thing louder.  _

_ “Cas!” Dean yells, but his voice is still muffled. His hands feel wet. He looks down and sees the trenchcoat wadded up in his hands, still dripping with water and stained with red and black. His stomach twists. “No. No. Cas!”  _

_ He looks up again and the darkness has receded. He’s at the edge of the water. Sam and Bobby aren’t there. He’s alone with a trenchcoat in his hands, his knuckles turning white with how hard he’s gripping the soaked fabric. “Cas!”  _

That last scream was loud enough to wake him. That name is still in his mouth, still squeezing his heart. He’s panting and can feel the burn in his nose. He shakes his head and looks around. Sam is sitting up in his own bed, his eyes squinting in the dark. 

__ “I’m fine,” Dean says too loudly. He swallows hard and looks away from Sam. “I’m fine.” 

“Is Cas here?” Sam asks. Dean shakes his head. He feels like he’s going to throw up and he doesn’t know if he should blame whatever cocktail Bobby had set him up with or the dream. He doesn’t have long though. He manages to turn himself enough to vomit over the arm of the couch. 

“Ugh.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and closes his eyes. 

“Sounds fine,” Sam says, getting up. 

“Get your ass back in bed,” Dean orders. 

“I’m okay, Dean.” He goes to the sink and starts rummaging around. The acidic smell of the puke is turning Dean’s already empty stomach. He holds his breath, covering his face. He doesn’t mean to gag, but Sam suddenly throws a bowl at Dean. 

“At least my leg doesn’t hurt, huh?” he jokes after puking again. Sam grimaces and moves to the floor to clean in the dark. “Really, man. Go back to bed. I can do this.” He puts the bowl on the coffee table and sits up. 

“I’m not going to explode, Dean,” Sam says pointedly. “I’m okay enough to clean up your technicolor yawn while you’re literally broken.”

“Last I checked, you didn’t know what was real and almost shot me.” He says it softly enough that it doesn’t ruffle Sam’s feathers. He nods a little. 

“I’m good though.” Sam lifts his stitched hand. New stitches have been placed. The hospital probably had to after he’d dug so deep into the cut that he probably tore the ones Dean had sewn. “And you need help. So let me do this.” 

Dean doesn’t want to, but he nods and leans back into his pillows. They don’t talk anymore, the silence punctuating how alone they both feel. The mess gets cleaned, the bowl is emptied and brought back to Dean, and then Sam goes back to his bed and mutters a goodnight. 

“Thanks,” Dean whispers back. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Night 3**

Every time Dean closes his eyes, his vision fills with blue. He will never forgive Cas for claiming an entire color. He can’t look out the window at blue skies. When a character on one of his telenovelas wears a blue tie, he chokes up. The blue on a take-out soda is even enough to make him lose his appetite. Dammit, Cas. Cas’ eyes had been the intense blue of every shade, every experience, every emotion packed into one vibrant color that tore Dean apart. His eyes could darken with the night skies and thunderous clouds or brighten to the cheerful blue of daytime and rolling waves. Flowers and butterflies had nothing on his eyes. But now they all held pieces of him. Each blue alone was nothing before. Now, they’re all Dean has. 

Sam is already sleeping. Bobby is gone, headed back to his own house after making sure they had ibuprofen and pie and their duffel bags of clothes. Dean is awake, his eyes shut too tight as he focuses on the color of Cas’ eyes. 

He isn’t sure when blue became his favorite color. He hadn’t had a favorite color when he was little. Maybe he had before his mom died, but after they had hit the road, favorites had sort of melted away. He didn’t bother having a favorite color or a favorite book because maybe those would go away too. The only constant favorite he had in his life was a piece of apple pie. And then there was blue. 

Falling in love with Cas had been like falling out of an airplane, hurling toward the Earth too fast. There was no parachute for him to use. It was just him freefalling, the speed picking up, the air rushing by too fast to breathe in until suddenly he crashed into the ground at Cas’ feet. 

The term  _ falling in love with _ makes it sound like Cas loved him back. Dean knows he cares. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t cared about Sam and Dean. It’s disgusting to Dean that thinking about Cas in the past tense is already easy.  _ He’s gone _ . Cas was an angel and angels can’t love. Even if they could, Dean doubts he would make anyone’s list. Especially Cas. Hell, Cas had been the one to see Dean safely to Lisa’s door. Dean had played house with his heart screaming for another, all because he knows that Cas could never love him like that. It didn’t help. Dean is in love with Cas. He was. Is. Will be forever. 

It doesn’t matter what he did. Dean forgives him. He would forgive him for everything. Those eyes, that head tilt, that voice. He would crumble if he ever saw him again. His heart would crack and the shards would splinter out. He would want to pull him into his arms and press their foreheads together so that his entire vision would fill with blue as his hands wove into that thick hair. He would breathe him in, their chests pressed together as he tells him just how much he forgives him. Just how much he would do anything to have him back. 

But Cas is gone. 

Dean’s breathing hitches and his eyes open as a single tear slides down his cheek. He wipes it away and turns to bury his face into the pillow.  _ Cas is gone _ . 

“If I forgive you, will you come back to me?” Dean whispers into his pillow. “If I tell you that I forgive you for all of it, will you come home?” All he can see is the lake. All he can feel is the weight of the blood-stained coat in his hands. All he can hear is his own muffled sob. 

**Night 3**

The man pulls at the soft cloth that hides what he has since learned is shameful. A woman had found him that morning as she had jogged along a path that weaved between the trees that had been keeping him company for three days. Her name is Daphne Allen and she is sure that God sent her to cross his path and help him. He isn’t sure who God is or why he knows who this man is, but apparently everyone has a name. Except this man. His name is lost or non-existent. When she had asked what she was supposed to call him, he had only been able to respond with a head tilt to express his lack of understanding. 

And now he is in what she calls a “guest bedroom” in what she calls “pajamas” and he’s supposed to sleep. He’s not sure what sleeping is. He isn’t sure he knows how or if he’s somehow broken. He doesn’t know what sleep is and he lacks a name and these pajamas are confining and uncomfortable. 

“ _ If I forgive you, will you come back to me?” _ The voice is loud and as clear as if another man were sitting in the same room as him. He looks around, searching for the anguished man. There is no one. There is nothing but dark. His heart is pounding which is new. He’d felt it, fast and fighting as he recovered from the water, but this is different and he can’t calm it by resting in the sunlight. Something is different about this voice and it rocks him at his core. “ _ If I tell you that I forgive you for all of it, will you come home?” _

“Yes,” the man whispers in the dark even though he has no reason to believe that the questions, spoken through a veil of tears, are meant for him. He goes to his window to look out at the yard. No one is there, not that there should be. He needs to comfort the man. 

There is no way to describe the ache inside of him. He feels… longing. Maybe not his. He doesn’t long for anything. He doesn’t know anything other than the trees, a large body of water, and the sky. He feels longing that might belong to the man who weeps and prays not for forgiveness but to forgive. 

“Yes,” he says again, louder, willing the voice to come back to him. There is no man. There is no one. But he can feel the agony. “Yes, I will come home. I will find you.” He doesn’t know who he’s making promises for or to, but he makes them anyway, desperate to be heard. 

**Night 4**

The man doesn’t actually believe his name is Emmanuel. Something about it feels wrong. It had been a long day. Daphne had taken him to a hospital to be checked out. He could have saved her the trip and told her that his temperature was normal, blood pressure excellent, airways clear, and vision impeccable. The only thing amiss was his name, but that was… fixed… with a visit to a psychiatrist.  
  
The name was plucked from a website called bouncingbabynames.com and Emmanuel had only chosen it after they spent thirty minutes waiting for one to jump out at him. Nothing had so he pointed randomly and hoped that he could go home soon. Wherever that was.  
  
They had been unable to retrieve his memories and came up with nothing. They had checked the missing persons posters for the area but there was no one that matched his description in the Colorado area. He’d lost track of everything they attempted after almost every single thing failed to return him to where he belonged. Maybe he didn’t belong anywhere.   
  
Emmanuel is in his guest bedroom again. He is in his sanctuary, isolated once again, protected and alone. He waits for the voice of the man to return to him but the room is silent. Does he have to summon it? He recalls what he had been doing the night before and copies the routine of sitting on the edge of the bed as he pulls awkwardly at his pajamas.  
  
Nothing happens.  
  
He wonders why he has to stay locked up in this room for roughly ten hours. He doesn’t know what sleep is or why it’s assumed he partakes in such a secretive act. He doesn’t know why he has to wear the clothes that hide his “shame” or why when he eats as Daphne does, he regurgitates it violently when she manages to not. Emmanuel is frustrated and the longer he goes without hearing that voice from the night before, the longer he sees that color green behind his closed eyelids, the more abandoned and lost he feels.

He doesn’t hear the voice. He just feels the pull. The raw pain in his chest that he’d felt on and off throughout the day. No words come with it. No grieving voice from nowhere. Just the suffering that connects him to the man who pleads for the return of his love. Anyone could hear it in the way he had begged. It didn’t matter that he’d never said a name or a relationship. It was a story in the cracks of his voice, the strain of tears, the matching pull in his chest of longing and loss tied up together in a perfect bow. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Day 6**

“How long do I have to stay here?” Dean snaps when Bobby walks in with fresh groceries and some take-out burritos. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, princess. I didn’t realize you had somewhere to be between the fucking leviathan hunting for your two and the busted leg.” He takes Dean’s Tiny Tim crutch and leans it against the kitchen sink before crossing his arms. “Be my guest. Go for the stroll you’re itchin’ for.” 

Dean glares and glances at Sam whose eyebrows are raised into his hairline. Dean picks up his leg and bites down the pain. The ibuprofen has been helping a little. Enough for doing nothing but sitting on his ass watching his stories. He only uses the heavier stuff they stole from the ambulance at night though. 

He pushes himself up off the couch and stands tall. Damn his leg hurts. He can’t bend it either which makes walking a bit of a challenge. He can make it to the bathroom by hopping a little bit and holding onto things. The path to the front door is notably without many things to grab onto as the coffee table is too low and the chair he could maybe lean against would tip for sure. 

Dean huffs and looks between his confined leg and the door. If he takes a step while holding onto something he can probably stay standing. If he takes one without anything, he’ll be on the ground again and too pissed off to accept help up from Sam or Bobby. He sets his jaw and grabs onto the couch to walk in the opposite direction back to the bathroom. 

He’s used to chasing down monsters and running through yards Ferris Bueler style, changing motel rooms every week and spending long hours on the open road with the windows down. Dean was trained to always be moving, not allowed to take a breather, or slow down long enough to get attached to anyone or anything. It’s not even been a week, but two halves of him are warring. One is itching to get outside and drown himself in work so he’s not alone with the pain or the incessant thoughts of Cas. The other craves the break. His leg obviously needs it. He knows he needs a forceful reminder to slow down sometimes. 

Dean slams the bathroom door and sags against it. He blocks out the sounds of Bobby sighing and putting away the groceries with Sam. He would kick the door if his legs fucking worked. Instead, he opts for covering his face with both hands and running them slowly down as he takes in slow breaths. 

He hears the sound of his crutch that he hates being leaned against the wall outside of the bathroom. He got the point. Even with the crutch, what would he do when he got outside? He’s in too much pain still and there’s nowhere to go. He would let himself sink to the floor and sit there forever but his leg can’t bend in this cast. 

“How’s your head?” Bobby asks Sam on the other side of the door. 

“Headaches and sleeping a lot still,” he says. “Mostly feeling better though.” 

“And the…?” No one has to say it. He still gets that haunted look in his eyes and forces his thumb into his hand, hoping no one notices. Dean notices. Sam sighs. 

“Yeah, uh… Better.” He doesn’t have to shoulder this alone but he’s sure as hell trying to. “I can tell the difference. I’m good, Bobby.” 

Dean pushes off the door and runs the water in the sink, splashing his face a few times before pressing his face into his bath towel. He can’t hide in the bathroom all day. He opens the door and nods to them in an  _ I’m sorry I threw a tantrum in my thirties _ kind of a way and makes his way back to the couch. 

“Catch,” Bobby says. Dean grabs the burrito out of the air and mutters his thanks before peeling open the tinfoil. “What’s playin’?”

“I haven’t seen this one yet. Twins separated at birth.” Dean nods to the tv where the new telenovela he’s been watching is cutting to commercial as he explains what he knows so far even without knowing Spanish well enough to actually know what they’re saying. “How much you wanna bet they fall in love with the same amnesiac and he doesn’t know he’s dating two ladies?”

“Five bucks he was married to one of ‘em before he split his skull,” Bobby says.

“Mm.” Dean nods as he takes a bite of his burrito. 

**Night 6**

“Time for bed,” Daphne announces. This is how this ritual goes. She declares that it is time for sleep and rest which Emmanuel still hasn’t figured out how to do. She stands from her chair where she has been reading a booklet written by her prayer circle’s leader, Jacob. She places the booklet back on a shelf nearby and she goes through the house turning off all of the lights. She walks Emmanuel to his room and says goodnight before walking down the hall where she stays for ten hours.  
  
“May I have a Bible to read?” Emmanuel asks as she starts to turn off the lights. She looks at him like he’s overstepped. “Jacob was reading from it earlier and I think it would be helpful.”  
  
“ _Jacob_ will tell us what we need to know from the holy book,” Daphne tells him. “We may misinterpret if it is not taught to us by someone who speaks to God. I know you have your gift, but that marks you as our healer, a true servant of God, not a teacher, one to lead us to salvation.”

“May I read anything?” Emmanuel asks. 

Daphne glances at the booklet she was just reading and frowns. “You haven’t been accepted into the group yet, so I may not share his words. Your initiation will be soon and we will be married. Until then… No.” She sighs and takes his hand, squeezing gently. “You are being purged of your sins before you can join. And you are doing so well. It won’t be long now, Emmanuel.” 

She leaves him at his door as she says goodnight and he goes back into his room. He isn’t sure what sins he’s committed if any. He still isn’t quite sure who God is and why his word is so important to Daphne and her friends. 

**Night 10**

Rain is pouring down, slamming against the window panes aggressively. There’s a fire going in the small furnace in the corner of the room, but Dean is still freezing. He pulls his blanket tighter around his shoulders and tries to become one with the couch as he closes his eyes. 

_ Dean is at the lake where Cas disappeared. Again. They never actually found him. He could be alive. No. He’s gone. Dean lays down next to the edge of the water and stares up at the sky as he listens to the water ripple.  _

_ “Hello, Dean.”  _

_ “Hey, Cas,” Dean answers automatically. Cas’ face comes into his vision, peering down at him from where he’s standing next to Dean. “Wait. You’re here.”  _

_ “Are you okay?” Cas kneels beside him as Dean sits up.  _

_ “You were gone. No, I’m not okay. I’m pretty far from okay, Cas.” His eyes are locked with Cas’ and his breathing hitches.  _

_ “I’m sorry,” Cas breathes. His hand comes up to Dean’s jaw, his thumb stroking over the stubble gently. “I’m so sorry, Dean.” _

_ “No, Cas,” Dean whispers, catching his hand and keeping it pressed to his cheek. “I don’t care about any of it. I don’t. I mean it sucked, but I need you back. I’m sorry I let it get so bad you did any of it. I… Cas…”  _

_ Cas leans in as he pulls Dean’s face gently toward him. His lips are soft and warm. Dean pulls Cas against him as his mouth opens for him. He can’t get close enough to him as he breathes him in, their lips crashing together in heated, pent-up passion.  _

_ “Cas,” Dean groans into his mouth.  _

Dean snaps awake, his face burning. At least he’s not cold anymore. He peeks over the side of the couch to make sure Sam didn’t hear, but he’s sleeping soundly, a soft snore coming from the bed. Dean squirms, readjusting his pants and trying to pretend that no, he does not have a hard-on from dreaming about Cas’ lips against his.

Dean runs a hand over his face before rubbing the sleep from his eyes and sitting up. There is no way he’s going back to sleep. He can’t stay awake, alone with his thoughts. He can’t go to sleep, dreams of Cas invading. 

Dean grabs his crutch from the floor and pulls himself to standing before draping his blanket over his shoulders. He leans on the crutch as he takes careful steps, half-dragging, half-hopping his way to the front door. He really wishes he had his hospital crutches. They’d at least been easier and faster to use than one wooden stick. 

The door creaks on its hinges but Sam doesn’t stir. Dean hops out onto the front porch that’s covered and closes the door again. He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders as he stands still, letting the silence of the night seep into his skin, the smell of rain and forest take over. 

“I love you,” he whispers. The rain swallows up the noise before even he can hear it. But he said it. Those words, that sentiment is out there, riding on the wind without a recipient to deliver to. “Cas…” 

What he wouldn’t give to have Cas walk through this darkness and tell him that he never died; he was just lost. It’s a hopeful thing to want and Dean doesn’t have any room for hope. Not as he stands alone in the middle of nowhere at whatever god-awful time in the morning it is. It can’t be later than two. 

He takes a couple hobbled steps to the railing and leans against it, putting his hand out into the rain and letting it wet his palm. The heavier drops slap the heel of his hand and the pads of his fingers. Dean takes his hand back and watches the rain drip off of him before he wipes it against the loose sweats he’s wearing. 

Bobby had managed to scrounge the sweats up for him after they’d had to cut a pair of his jeans to fit around the cast. 

Dean sighs and watches the rain for a few more hours before he finally decides to go back inside and chance falling asleep to see Cas’ face again. 

**Night 10**

Emmanuel stands at his window in his box of nightly quarantine, his hand splayed over the glass. Rain is hammering down against the glass on the other side. Everything is glittering.  
  
“ _I love you_ ,” the voice comes. It’s a jolt to his system and he gasps. His heart feels like it might leap from it’s protected position within his chest. He can’t help it. 

“I love you,” he whispers back because he does. He loves this man who loves with his entire being so fully that it pains them both. He loves him though he’s never met him face to face. He’s never looked upon him or shaken his hand. He loves him more than he loves anything else and he wants the words to belong to him even if they couldn’t possibly. 

“ _Cas…_ ” They belong to Cas, whoever that is. His shoulders sag and he leans forward, his cheek against the cool glass.  
  
“I love you,” Emmanuel says again, pleading for his voice to be heard. Something tells him this is a one-way telephone call. This sorrowful, heartbroken man will never hear his voice, see his face, feel his heart beating just for him. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Day 14**

It’s been two weeks and Sam is finally feeling well enough to leave the cabin. Dean still can’t, but he’ll take what he can get, practically shoving his brother out the door with Bobby. He hasn’t been alone save for the few moments in the dead of night when he wakes, panting with an angel’s name on his lips.

Dean turns off the tv and stretches out on the couch, grinning in the silence of the room. Sun is streaming in through the windows and he feels good. He feels like he can breathe. He pulls in a slow breath as he arches his back so his head and shoulders are tipped over the arm of the couch. 

“Fuuuuck yes,” he groans as he relaxes back into his pillows. Unfortunately, the initial freedom of being left alone wears off when he closes his eyes to nap and the kiss from his dream last night returns. He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows hard. 

The memory of a dream is the worst kind. It’s not even real, but he clings to the feeling of Cas’ mouth on his. Their noses brushing as they breathe, staring into each other’s eyes. Cas’ fingers on the back of his neck. Dean keeps getting farther in his dreams too. It started with Cas missing. Then Cas was there and they spoke. Then kissing and murmured confessions and apologies. Last night, Dean’s hand had made it down the front of Cas’ pants and Dean had woken up, sweating, panting, and stiff as a board with a bead of precum wetting his boxers. 

Dean rubs his hand down the outside of his pants that are doing nothing to hide his erection. He keeps his eyes closed, picturing Cas climbing on top of him on this couch. Those full lips on his neck and Cas’ hand replacing Dean’s on his crotch. 

He unbuttons his pants hurriedly though there’s really no rush, and slides his hands down his boxers. He rubs his hand down his stiff cock and gently grabs his balls, sucking in a sharp breath. His imaginary Cas sucks on his neck before licking up to his ear and saying his name. 

Dean’s hand circles his dick and he doesn’t bother starting slow. His hand slides up and down the shaft quickly precum leaking down and wetting his hand. In his mind, Cas’ clothes are gone, his chest bare, muscles taut under his tanned skin. It’s Cas’ hand that beats Dean off, their dicks pressed together between them. 

“Cas!” Dean moans. He doesn’t mean to and bites down on his lip as he pumps faster. He can hear Cas’ deep voice saying his name. He wishes he could feel the weight of him on top of him. He wants to suck Cas’ tongue into his mouth and moan loudly as he spills over. “Fuck, yes, Cas,” Dean groans. 

He keeps his eyes closed, allowing his fantasy of Cas biting his lip and moaning his name going as long as he can, come leaking over his hand. But then, Cas is gone. And Dean is alone. He opens his eyes, still breathing harder than he thought he would be, and stares at the ceiling. 

He has to change his shirt. It’s like being a teenager all over again; jacking off into a sock at the motel room of the week after school, picturing actors or past lovers. Dean pulls off his t-shirt carefully and wipes his hand off on it before pulling up his pants and getting up. 

He feels a little hollow. The first time he had ever called Cas’ name had been well before he’d been willing to admit that he had any feelings for him. It had been in a dark room where he had tried telling himself that there was no way he was picturing Cas’ blue eyes and raven hair and definitely not his wings on the wall of a barn. It was a stark contrast to where he was at now, whispering his love confessions into storms and summoning fantasies of Cas kissing and moaning, coming with him. At least one thing is constant. He knows he can’t have Cas. Alive or dead, he’s off-limits and Dean is unwanted. 

Dean tosses his shirt into the sink to wash before Bobby has questions he won’t want to ask when he picks up the laundry on his way home. He doesn’t bother grabbing a new shirt yet as he hops over to the sink. It’s getting easier to move around. The pain is less and he’s getting better at using his crutch. He scrubs the evidence of his afternoon delight away and sighs, disappointed in himself. When did Busty Asian Beauties become a thing of the past, Cas better than any centerfold that Dean would ever see again? When did he start giving in, allowing himself to pretend, just for five minutes, that Cas was his? 

Dean drapes his cleaned shirt over a chair and crosses the room to his duffel to grab a fresh shirt. It’s plain black and shouldn’t spark any feelings, but Dean knows this shirt. It’s the one he’d worn what felt like millions of years ago when he had woken up in a pine box. It’s the one he’d been wearing when he’d lifted the sleeve to see Cas’ handprint burned into his shoulder. Dean looks down at his freckled shoulder. No scar remains. Not after Cas had healed it away. Dean wraps his hand over where the handprint had been. It feels like touching the ghost of a kiss. 

He pulls on his shirt and heads to the bathroom to finish cleaning up. This quarantine shit was getting to him. Or Cas being gone was. But Dean can’t think about that, so it’s definitely the being locked up in a cabin for two weeks and absolutely not about his broken heart that’s stuck on an angel. 

**Day 14**

Emmanuel is in church, sitting in the pews beside Daphne as their leader preaches. He has been here before, but he never gets used to it. Sun shines through colored panes of glass. Shocking imagery coats the interior. An emaciated man with blood dripping from his hands and feet where the nails keep him secured to a wooden cross is at the front of the room. Blood runs down his gaunt face from the thorns. He can’t focus on the words of the sermon. He drags his eyes to the candles. Only ten are lit, the flames flickering gently. 

“Pay attention,” Daphne whispers. He looks back to the man at the front of the room and tries not to let his eyes drift to the statues or paintings or images in the stained glass. He sits quietly with his hands folded in his lap. 

His chest tightens with that feeling. That heavy pull that he’s getting addicted to. He presses his palms into his knees and closes his eyes, breathing slowly.   
There is no way to describe this. It’s not words. It’s not an image. It’s just the overwhelming feeling of his lips against the other man’s. His heart rate quickens as his nose brushes against the nose of the man he wishes he were kissing. All he can see is green. All he can feel is short hair between his fingers. His hand tightens, balling his khaki pants into his fist. He yelps when he feels his hand rub against an erect penis.  
  
“Are you alright?” Daphne asks quickly in her hushed voice.  
  
“I will be right back,” he promises, hoping no one can see just how aroused he is right now. He gets up and makes his way out of the pews as finally the voice comes. No words, but erotic panting, breaths coming harshly. He stumbles, needing to find a room, any room, to relieve this tension. He finds a door and opens it, shutting himself inside and leaning against a wall, his eyes closing.  
  
He feels as if his body is pressed to another. His lips are still at the man’s throat, whimpers making him harder. Emmanuel fumbles with his pants that seem to be getting tighter and tighter. He doesn’t know what he’s doing but he slides his hand down his erection and groans. 

He doesn’t know how he knows what he’s feeling. He’s never done anything like this as far as he knows. He’s never lain with another person. He’s never touched himself or another like this. Yet, because of the link between him and who he privately thinks is his love, he can feel what it is to have his dick pressed to another. In his mind, his tongue runs up the man’s neck until his lips are against his ear.  
  
Emmanuel exhales sharply as he hears what the other man longs to hear, _“Dean_ …” His hand slides up and down his own shaft as he pictures himself on top of his love, his _Dean_. He moves his hand to the same speed that his counterpart is. He doesn’t know how he knows how fast his hand is pumping or why he knows the sound of his moans or why this feels so good, but he does and he moans. 

_“Cas!”_ In this moment, he is Cas. Emotions that don’t belong to him flood him. Loss and overwhelming love, adoration, hurt… they fill him up and crash over him in waves, a love note from his phantom partner, a declaration from afar.  
  
“Dean!” Emmanuel moans loudly as he shudders, ejaculating onto the floor. 

“ _Fuck yes, Cas.”_  
  
Emmanuel swallows hard and sags against the wall. He feels his lips on Dean’s, his tongue in his mouth. Sloppy kisses and hot breath. Heaving chests and sticky come between them. Suddenly, the image is taken away and Emmanuel opens his eyes. He is alone in what looks like a fancy storage room. There’s a golden box on the table next to him. In front of the table is the evidence of what he had just done. He pulls up his pants and runs a hand through his hair. He feels weak. 

Emmanuel stumbles out of the small room and returns to the pews, sitting beside Daphne. He can feel that his cheeks are flushed and his breathing still hasn’t fully returned to normal. His heart refuses to settle, still aching with the longing. Maybe it doesn’t only belong to the other man now. He can’t tell to whom it belongs, but he has a feeling it’s starting to become his. 

Their leader moves from the front of the room toward the room that Emmanuel had disappeared into. Daphne asks him something but Emmanuel isn’t listening. He shakes his head and this seems to satisfy her and she looks back at the front. Jacob returns with the golden box that had just witnessed his masturbation. 

“The body of our savior,” Jacob announces. 

**Night 16**

“Dean? Dean, wake up. It’s just a dream.” Sam’s hands are on his shoulders. Dean is covered in a cold sweat and panting. He’s definitely not wiping tears away from his face as he rubs his hand across his eyes. 

“What’s goin’on?” he mumbles.

“You were having a nightmare,” Sam, king of having nightmares says. Dean pushes himself up and sighs. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Why would I wanna talk about it?”

“You were yelling for Cas…” Fuck. Shit. No. God dammit. Dean is glad it’s dark. His entire face heats and he clenches his jaw. He clears his throat but he doesn’t say anything. “You know you can talk to me about this.”  
  
“No. I really can’t,” Dean laughs without an ounce of humor, covering his face again. The entire situation makes him laugh even though its not funny. 

“Why’re you laughing?” 

“Because this is fucking stupid, Sammy,” Dean snaps. “All of this. That Cas worked with Crowley. That your brain is broke. That Cas is gone. That I have a fucking broken leg and haven’t left the house in two weeks. That Cas walked into a fucking lake and what the fuck happened? Where is he? Is he dead? Is he just missing? Where is he? No. Don’t. Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like that. Shut up and go back to bed. I’m fine.” 

“You love him…” Sam says it quietly but it’s the loudest thing that Dean has ever heard. His heart pounds. He doesn’t say anything. He can’t. His heart is in his throat and he’s sure if he tried to speak, nothing would come out anyway. Not unless it was a squeak in protest. A lying squeak of protest. “Dean…”

Dean drags in a slow, deep breath and closes his eyes. “He’s gone, Sam,” he says on the exhale. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It never did. He was an angel. I was an ant to him. It doesn't matter and it never will. So go back to bed and forget this.” 

“Dean.”

“Go.” Sam gets up reluctantly and walks back to his bed, his bare feet making that stupid soft padding noise as he goes. The bed creaks while he pulls the blankets around himself and then the cabin is silent again. 

Dean grinds his teeth together and lays back down on the couch, turning as much on his side as he can. The blanket is curled into his tight fists. He keeps dreaming about that day at the lake. But it’s more than that moment at the lake. It’s more than the rippling water, the trench coat, the empty feeling. It’s the pounding of his heart every time he looks out and the blue of the sky meets the abyss of the water. It’s the crack in his voice, an audible recreation of the crack in his heart when he calls out his name. And that’s just the dream he’d woken from tonight.  
  
He also dreams of Cas’ lips. The way they form Dean’s name. The way they look perpetually chapped but would probably be the softest kiss Dean ever had. The perfect pink color of them. The way his tongue looks running over the lower lip. His teeth biting down into it. Those lips on his. On his mouth, neck, chest, stomach, hip, inner thigh…

He dreams in memories, flashes of moments that they shared together. Moments of gas stations exploding, motel mirrors shattering, barns in the middle of Illinois. Moments shared in Dean’s dreams. The ones where he’s threatened, their faces too close. The ones where Cas is panicked and telling him to find him. Ones where he’s not sure if it was really Cas at all. He dreams of their years together. The year without him and how much it hurt. He dreams that tomorrow, Cas will walk through that door instead of Bobby and he will say he’s sorry. He will fold himself into Dean’s arms and Dean will tell him he’s forgiven while he presses kisses into his hair.  
  
But they’re all just dreams. Every single one. So Dean shuts his eyes and wills himself not to dream, prays not to remember. Because remembering each one is a scar no one can see.


	5. Chapter 5

**Day 17**

Emmanuel had been cleansed of his sins. It had been unpleasant. Holy water had been poured over him as ritualistic chants and phrases were said by the priest and repeated by the prayer group that Daphne was part of.  
  
He has to let go of Dean. Every night he listens for him. Day and night he feels that tug toward him. His entire being aches with want for a man he’s never met. He has to let go.  
  
He’s standing at the front of the church with Daphne Allen’s hands in his. Jacob is performing a wedding ritual. And Emmanuel… is saying goodbye. He can’t be a good husband, a good follower of this faith with thoughts of Dean running rampant through him. Jacob has had sermons on the sins of any sexual act. Every thought of Dean is a sexual act in itself now. He craves his touch. He longs for his kisses. He begs for that voice to fill his mind and whisper of love.  
  
He has to let go. He has to try. 

“I do,” Emmanuel says to Daphne as he severs his connection to his love. It hurts. It hurts so bad. Like he’s been stabbed in the heart and the offending knife keeps twisting. He wants to throw up but there is nothing in him to expel. The room tilts and his hands slip from Daphne’s.  
  
“Emmanuel?”  
  
“Dean…” he breathes as his vision goes black.

**Day 17**

Dean is on the couch half asleep as the tv goes through the commercials between the ending of his last episode and the beginning of the new one. The most dramatic wedding of all time is about to happen but Dean can barely keep his eyes open. 

There’s a stab in his chest. Dean sits up and presses a hand to his chest. He groans as he feels whatever invisible knife twists. There’s a snap and the fires of Hell couldn’t match the pain Dean feels erupt inside of him. He screams. Some part of him knows that Cas is gone. He might not have been before, but he is now. Cas is gone. He can’t feel him. He can’t feel that weird pull that he’s felt since he crawled out of his grave. He can’t feel their “profound bond”. He can’t feel it.

“Cas!” Dean pulls at his shirt, hoping somehow to find the cord that has been severed. His nails dig into his chest. He can’t feel him. He can’t feel anything but pain. And heat. He can’t hear anything but screaming. “NO!” 

“Dean!” Sam yells over him. 

“He’s gone! He’s gone! CAS!” Dean is gasping for air between the full screams. There’s nothing to breathe. There’s nothing to pull into his lungs because his lungs are deflated. His heart is missing. His ribs are broken. Something is wrong. Cas is gone. 

“Dean, it’s okay. Calm down. Dean!” Sam grabs Dean’s face and shoves something in his mouth. He holds Dean’s mouth shut and Dean lets out a strangled scream. It’s muffled. He kicks Sam with his good leg and pulls his hair as hard as he can before raking his nails down Sam’s face and fighting as hard as he can. “DEAN!”

“HE’S GONE!” Dean screams when Sam releases him. He’s suddenly dizzy. He gags and swallows hard, trying to focus his eyes that are now letting the room swim. 

“Dean, you have a fever. Dean! Can you hear me?” 

He feels empty and abandoned. He feels a pain worse than any torture he’d ever endured before. He can’t function. The only thing in his head is that Cas is gone. He had been alive for these two weeks and he had been sitting on the couch beating off to fantasies of him. He wasn’t out there looking for him. And now Cas is gone. Cas is gone. Cas is gone. “Cas! No! CAS!” 

“Fuck! Stop it!” Sam yells. He pulls Dean’s hands from his chest.

“It’s gone! He’s gone! It’s missing! He’s gone!” It doesn’t sound like that when it comes out of his mouth though and he’s not sure why. Dean pulls against Sam’s hands and feels the sharp stab of a needle in his arm. “HE’S GONE!” Dean screams as loudly as he can as his vision blurs. He goes limp against the couch and struggles to keep his eyes open. “E...E’s... He… Cas… Cas!” 

“Come on,” Sam says as he picks Dean up. Dean closes his eyes. He can feel the tears streaming down his face still. He lifts a hand to his face and touches gently. Wet. 

“Cas,” Dean sobs. Sam drops him and the fire that exists in Dean’s skin is replaced with the burning of needles. His skin is coming off. He screams in horror and his face falls under the surface of the water. Bubbles rise but Dean can’t move. It hurts too much to try. “Cas!” he tries but his mouth fills with the ice water that is stabbing into him. 

Sam lifts his face out of the water. “Dean… Dean!”  
  
“H-h-h-he’s… He’s gone. He’s. CAS!” 

“I’m not…” Sam looks between Dean and the empty doorway. “I’m not!” Dean spits water out and gasps. Dean’s limbs are all limp still, but he’s a sobbing mess, screaming and trying to stay above the drugs, the water, the pain. 

Sam digs his phone out of his pocket, one hand on Dean’s head to keep him above the water. No one knows what this feels like. No one in the world knows the pain and Dean doesn’t either. He has never felt this. He feels like his entire body is being broken, that he is alone in the middle of it all. His skull is splitting and he can’t tell if it’s because Cas is gone or because of the fever Sam says he has. 

“Bobby, I don’t know… I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what’s real!” 

**Night 18**

Emmanuel leaves Daphne’s bed and stumbles out into the hallway. He makes it out to the backyard. He feels sick and drained and like he’s physically breaking. 

“Dean!” Emmanuel screams into the night. Rain pours down onto him and he lets it. He needs him back. He needs his heart back. He needs that bond. That pull. That tether that keeps him breathing. He was wrong. He can’t let him go. 

After he’d woken up on the floor of the church, he’d known he’d made a mistake. He went home with his wife where she brought him to bed and talked. She talked so much and none of it made any sense. It’s not like he could hear her over the rushing of his thoughts. He needed Dean. That’s all he could think. That’s the only thing that made sense.  
  
He’s on his knees in the rain, straining to rebuild a connection he doesn’t know if he can fix. He didn’t know he could physically sever a tie that would feel as if he had mutilated himself. He didn’t know he had that power. He’s gulping in the air, trying desperately to get that incessant feeling in his heart. That one that told him Dean was on the other end of the string. That Dean was there. That Dean is his. 

There it is. It’s there. He falls the rest of the way to the paved stones of the backyard, rain soaking him as his hands rest on his chest. His heart can beat. His lungs can expand. 

“ _CAS! NO! NO! HE’S GONE! NO! DON’T TOUCH ME! NO!”_ Dean’s voice sounds like he’s been screaming for days. It’s raw and deeper from his despair. Tears escape from Emmanuel’s eyes. “No… He… Cas?” He’s calm again. The screaming over. He can hear Dean’s heart pounding too fast from his fit. It’s coming down. Down. Then his voice, his heart, his uneasy breaths are gone, but the pull remains.  
  
He’s back. He’s okay. He’s there. Emmanuel smiles.

**Day 19**

Dean’s eyelids are heavy, but he blinks away the sleep. Sam is in a chair that’s been dragged next to the couch, his head tilted back as he sleeps. There’s a scratch mark on Sam’s cheek like he got in a fight on a hunt and forgot to cover his face. 

Dean looks over his shoulder into the kitchen where Bobby is making something. “Hey…” Dean’s voice sounds raw. His voice is scratchy and wrong sounding. 

“Fever broke two hours ago,” Bobby says as he grabs a glass of water and brings it over to Dean. 

“What fever?” It hurts to talk. He drinks the entire glass and hands it back. Bobby raises his eyebrows and takes it, filling it again. 

“What’s the last thing you remember? You’ve been raisin’ hell for two days and you’re gonna tell me you don’t remember any of it?” 

The last thing Dean remembers is falling asleep on the couch with his telenovela playing. He’d been waiting for Rosa’s wedding to Don. He’d had a terrible dream. Dreams of his time in Hell. Of Cas’ hands gripping his shoulders and the sheer pain of it along with a different pain. The pain of separation. He’d dreamed that the bond between them had snapped and that it had nearly killed him. Dean just shakes his head. 

“Two days?” he asks in his hoarse voice when Bobby just shakes his head. “Really?” Bobby presses his lips together. 

“Dean,” Sam sighs. Dean looks over and sees Sam rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay…” If it was all real, that means that Cas is really gone. 

Cas is gone. Not just missing. He’s gone. He’s… Dean is not okay. Not one bit. Dean clenches his jaw. 

  
  



End file.
